


Polaris

by kuruk



Category: Mother 3
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuruk/pseuds/kuruk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claus will always let Lucas win. It's in the natural order of things, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polaris

**Author's Note:**

> For curimuch, who introduced me to sissy hit versus SHOVE, and littlelinor, who convinced me that the first scene wasn't actually all that bad, really.

Lucas curls into the fetal position, arms folded over his head in an effort to shield himself. The lightning-blade cuts into his arm, slicing through muscle and sinew. It's pain unlike anything he's ever felt before, but Lucas does not scream, nor does he cry. He pulls at his psi desperately, pouring it through his body to staunch the blood flow with reconnecting tissue and blood vessels.  
  
His clothes are stained with wet, thick crimson, and he is lightheaded from the blood loss, but he forces himself onto his feet anyway, holding onto his stick with all his strength. His blood is pounding in his ears and his vision is swimming, but he keeps himself steady. Kumatora, Duster and Boney are unconscious, and his father has been wounded. There is no one left but him.  
  
The Masked Man – no, it's Claus underneath that helmet – stares back at him. Outlined as he is in the violet light of the needle, the Commander looks even less like the brother he remembered; there is no passion in his eyes or movements, no triumphant quirk of the lips as he forces Lucas to give more and more ground. His face is blank, his movements ruthlessly efficient in a way that only a machine is capable of.  
  
In a movement too quick for Lucas to follow, his brother raises his arm cannon and fires twice in rapid succession. The shots hit him square in the chest, and they send him sprawling onto his back. The stench of burning flesh overwhelms his nostrils, and Lucas almost throws up. But suddenly Claus is above him, his mechanical eye flashing red, and Lucas grasps his psi. The blow bounces off the shield, but his brother doesn't end his assault there. The Commander rams the sword into the shield with such force that the its point cracks through, the blade crackling with electricity that bounces uselessly off his Franklin Badge and back onto the shield. Quickly, Lucas rolls out from under it just as the whole thing gives way, the sword digging into the ground where Lucas's chest had been just a few moments before.  
  
He heals himself as best he can and tries to get up, but another burst of plasma catches him in the side. Lucas cries out then, as the pain blossoms along his side and he is sent careening across the ground, his wounds filling with the dust and dirt of these old catacombs. He rolls to a stop on his back, and barely manages to roll away to avoid another assault, this one launched from the air.  
  
Claus lands and folds his wings, and then he is advancing again, lightning-blade moving so quickly it's a blur. The strikes are strategically targeted: one slashes through his knee, and the other loops back through the air to dig into his right shoulder. Lucas screams, his grip on his psi faltering in face of the _pain._  
  
His vision begins to fade in and out, disappearing in patches of black and violet. He is losing blood fast, and the pain is beginning to ebb away, even as the Commander twists the blade even deeper into his shoulder.  
  
Lucas stares up at his brother as he moves his arm cannon to point at his face.  
 __  
Claus, he tries to say, but the strain of trying to talk makes him cough up mucous and blood. The fluid stains his chapped lips crimson.  
  
The arm cannon hums as it begins to gather energy.  
  
Lucas does not cry. He is afraid of death, of course, but he remembers the calm acceptance of the Magypsies as they embraced fate with open arms. Perhaps this is what fate had always had in store for him.  
  
There is so much to say, so much that went unsaid during the three years they were apart. _I love you_ , and _I'll be waiting with Mom_ , or maybe even _I'm glad it's you, Claus.  
_ __  
Goodbye, he thinks.  
  
Lucas closes his eyes and waits for his brother to put an end to it all.

— . . . —

"You're dead!" Claus crows triumphantly.  
  
Lucas holds his stick tighter and pouts indignantly, his knuckles turning white with the effort of his grip. "Am not!"  
  
"Are too!" Claus insists. He swings his own stick hard enough to cut through the air with a sharp whooshing sound. "I cut you across your stomach and your guts are spilling out onto the ground. You're _dead_."  
  
But Lucas won't give in. "Am _not_ , Claus! You _missed_."  
  
Claus frowns. "Did not."  
  
"Did _too._ "  
  
" _Did not!_ " He lunges at Lucas, who lets out a small cry of surprise when Claus's blow hits his stick with enough force to almost knock it out of his hands.  
  
The play-fighting becomes progressively more and more intense. Claus gains ground quickly, swinging at Lucas with reckless abandon.  
The other boy keeps backpedaling, trying to catch his brother's attacks with his stick. Claus's brow is furrowed with concentration as he attempts to overwhelm his brother, who seems to be tiring with each step he gives. Smirking, Claus bends his knees and launches a particularly forceful sideswipe at Lucas's stick. The blow hits much too low, smacking against Lucas's hand instead of the stick.  
  
The blond yelps in pain, and his stick goes flying with the force of the blow. He falls onto his bottom, clutching at his right hand with his left one.  
  
Claus laughs, giddy with the feeling of victory. "See?" he gloats. "I'm better than you, Lucas." When he notices that Lucas is _crying_ , however, he stops immediately, his blood running cold. "W-what happened?"  
  
"Y-y-you… h-h-h-hit…"  
  
Lucas can barely speak over his sobbing, so it falls to Claus to decipher the reason as to why his brother is crying. It takes him a few moments (he has never been a particularly observant or detail-oriented child), but he eventually notices the way Lucas holds his injured hand gingerly.  
  
The guilt makes its presence known with a pang. For a moment, Claus remains still, watching his brother cry. But then he is dropping his stick and stepping forward, crouching down to Lucas's level.  
  
"Lemme see," he says over the thick lump in his throat. When Lucas continues to cry, Claus tries to make his voice sound more like an order. "Gimme your hand, Lucas."  
  
Lucas continues to cry, his face turning an ugly shade of red. The older of the pair bites his lip and hesitantly reaches out to grab his brother's injured hand. He does so as gingerly as he can, but as soon as he touches it, Lucas yanks it away.  
  
"D-d-don't t-touch it!"  
  
Claus sucks in a deep breath. He is beginning to feel a bit dizzy. "Is – is it bleeding?" He waits until his brother responds, shaking his head. "Can you move it?" Again he waits until Lucas responds, this time with a nod. Claus puts his hand on Lucas's knee and pats it the way their father does when they get a scrape. "Then you're fine, Lucas."  
  
He doesn't seem to believe him, though. "B-b-but it _h-hurts_!"  
  
"I know," Claus says. Then, with considerably more hesitation, "Sorry."  
  
When that fails to reach Lucas as well, Claus acts impulsively. He reaches for Lucas's stick and, without stopping to think about it, whacks himself across the thigh with it, hard. The crack of pain is sharp, and Claus yowls as it shoots up his leg. Tears sting at his eyes despite himself, and he shuts them to prevent Lucas from seeing.  
  
Sure enough, that seems to get through to his brother. The blond hiccups and blinks his red-rimmed eyes, a few tears squeezing their way out of the corners of his eyes. "W-w-what'd you do that for?"  
  
Uselessly, Claus shrugs. "It's only fair," he grits out as the pain morphs into a what feels like thousands of needles sticking at his skin. "I was stupid and hurt you. Sorry."  
  
Lucas considers this. "I-it's okay," he says. Then, he rubs at his tear and snot-stained face with his uninjured hand. "You s-still didn't have to, Claus."  
  
Claus frowns and crosses his arms somewhat petulantly. "Whatever."  
  
Silence falls between them as they rub at their smarting limbs.  
  
"I'm not gonna tell Mom," Lucas whispers.  
  
Claus blinks owlishly at his brother, surprised. In all honesty, he hadn't even thought of that. "Thanks, I guess…" he says.  
  
Another silence.  
  
Lucas breaks this one too, sniffling a little. "I'm really bad at fighting.…"  
  
It's not so much that Lucas is bad, Claus thinks, but that he is so much better. Then again, it's in the natural order of things for the older brother to be the one who's better at stuff like fighting, even if they _do_ have the same birthday and stuff. It's Claus's job to be the fighter and watch out for Lucas; Dad had told him so himself a while back.  
  
So Claus ruffles his hand through Lucas's carefully combed hair and gives his brother what he thinks is a strong, manly look. "I'll protect you," he promises. "You don't have to worry about stuff like fighting!"  
  
His brother doesn't seem to be offended by this, however. Instead, he smiles. "A-and I'll take care of you," he says. "Like Mom does for us."  
  
"You mean like cooking and cleaning and telling me when to go to bed?" Claus wrinkles his nose when Lucas nods. "Fine, you can do that," he says imperiously. "But you've gotta be sure to make omelets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and let me go to bed as late as I want and, oh! Make cake for dessert all the time, not just for our birthday."  
  
Lucas nods solemnly. "O-okay."  
  
They sit together in the grass for a while. Claus rubs at his aching thigh and looks at the sky, which is beginning to darken into the deeper blue of early evening. He looks at Lucas. "Wanna go home?"  
  
The other boy nods. "Okay."  
  
He gets to his feet and hisses at the pain in his thigh. Lucas notices and, leaning forward, presses a kiss to the reddening skin.  
  
Claus's face flares a red that clashes horribly with his hair. "What are you _doing_?" he demands.  
  
His younger brother stares up at him. "Taking care of you," he says. "Whenever one of us gets hurt, Mom kisses it to make it better."  
  
"That's for _babies_ ," Claus retorts, crossing his arms over his chest. When Lucas looks down, however, Claus quickly tries to think of something to add before the blond starts crying again. Nothing comes to mind, so he acts impulsively again. He reaches for Lucas's hand and, closing his eyes, presses his own lips to his wrist.  
  
When he pulls away, he doesn't even pause to look at the expression on Lucas's face. Instead, he breaks into a run. "Race you home!" he cries.  
  
"Hey! No fair!" Lucas exclaims, stumbling to his feet.  
  
"Winner gets the loser's omelet!" Claus says, but still...he slows down despite himself.  
  
He lets Lucas beat him and acts disappointed when he reaches the finish line. Claus doesn't like losing, but it's worth it, because Lucas smiles so wide, his cheeks flushed, that it makes Claus's whole world a little bit brighter.  
  
They laugh like children should.

— . . . —

He has reencountered the boy and the other interlopers here, beneath his master's city of cardboard. The last needle is within his sights, and all he has to do is terminate this last obstacle and complete his mission.  
  
The air is rank with the stench of burning flesh and the faintly metallic hint of blood. It is the boy's blood, pooling underneath his broken body and seeping into the dead earth beneath him. In the hazy light of the needle, the blood glows a deep maroon.  
  
The boy has closed his eyes, and something seems to chime within him at the sight. It is like a subroutine that had been faulty since his activation has been rectified. He sees images of an inexplicable origin: a boy – this boy – crying in the grass, a woman, familiar and comforting, holding him close. That man - the one that had been chasing him - hurling him into the air and catching him, a wide smile on his face. The boy, this boy, pressing his lips softly to his aching thigh.  
  
And as Claus remembers this, the Commander does something he has never done in the three cycles since his activation.  
  
He hesitates.  
  


— . . . —

In the end, Claus lets Lucas win.  
  
He doesn't much like losing, but it's worth it. Lucas is crying instead of smiling, the sound of his sobs faint in his ears, but Claus smiles anyway. His skin sizzles like its boiling and the machinery keeping him alive is short-circuiting, but Claus can't feel it; he's too caught up in the sight of his brother and, standing behind him, Mom, smiling at him lovingly, just like he remembered.  
  
"C-C- _Claus_ , please," Lucas is begging. "Don't l-l-leave me. I need you. Please, Claus, _please_ –"  
  
"We'll see each other again," he promises, his voice hoarse from three years of disuse. "J-just pull the needle, Lucas."  
  
Hinawa reaches for him, and Claus takes her hand in his own.  
  
 _Goodbye_ , he thinks.  
  
And for the briefest of moments, the world is bright again.


End file.
